


In All His Beauty

by WriteYourDreamsTheyWillCome



Category: Beauty and the Beast - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteYourDreamsTheyWillCome/pseuds/WriteYourDreamsTheyWillCome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jason comes across a terrible car accident during winter in the mountains, he has no choice but to take in the injured woman. As Emma heals under the care of her mysterious rescuer, who hides in the shadows to conceal a deformity, she falls in love with his generous heart in all its beauty. B&B w/contemporary twist. Changed to "Mature" for some sensual chapters. (Rape happens before the story, but conversations reference it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rocky Mountains, Colorado  
December 15

Another long, boring drive from Colorado to Chicago for the holidays, only to be badgered about turning thirty and being husbandless and babyless. She sighed and turned the wiperblades on. Where did this snow come from? Glancing at the clock of her car, she groaned. Two more hours until getting out of the mountains. The weather hadn't predicted a snowstorm. Maybe it was too small to have shown up on weather radar and it would pass as fast as it'd come. With these winding roads and cliffs, it might be better to pull over and wait it out. Her eyes scanned the road. Wait it out where? A cliff greeted the right side and the side of the mountain on the left. She tapped the breaks and dropped speed just in case it got slippery. Her thoughts wandered back to the holiday gathering this weekend at Nana's.

Nana's warbly, eighty-year-old voice rang in her head, "In my day, girls were married and had five babies by age 30. The only ones who didn't were the nuns."

She gripped the steeringwheel tighter. Then would come the drills from the younger cousins, who had all started families of their own, asking how long she'd been dating Mr. Right. She snorted. Mr. Right still didn't exist. Who knew, though? She could make him up and lie that he was on a business trip in France. She laughed to herself. Her female cousins would drool. Mr. Right would be sexy, a huge businessman, and...maybe have a mansion in LA and a villa in Italy. Perhaps the Christmas gathering would be fun this year.

Flipping the wipers on high, she frowned and looked up at the sky. The snow was coming hard now. Great. She couldn't turn around, and it probably wasn't safe to keep going. Tapping the brakes, she slowed to five miles an hour and prayed no one came barrelling up behind. Within seconds, a full blizzard unleashed, making visibility impossible.

Her heart raced with fear. This wasn't good. Dread bubbled up in her gut. Her knuckles turned white clutching the steeringwheel. The road disappeared within seconds. Everything disappeared except for a wall of white enveloping the car. She hit the brakes. The car slid to the right. Oh god, not the cliff! The car tilted at an angle and then went into a tailspin. "Noooo!" she screamed in terror. Just as suddenly, the seatbelt locked as her body was thrown against it. Pain shot up her shoulder from the impact. As if in slow motion, she saw the nose of the car wrap itself around a tree. The steering wheel seemed to come closer and closer as the car crumpled on itself like a candy wrapper. Her ankle caught in the collapsing metal. Pain exploded through her head as it smashed into the steering wheel. Then everything went black.

A male voice spoke low and quiet. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, as if her pulse found it funny to drum on her brain. Memories of the car accident swam up. She laid in something soft and cool. A hospital bed? Her body felt heavy, and it took intense concentration to form a coherent thought, like they had to climb through molasses to take shape. Even opening her eyes proved to be too much effort. Slowly shifting her stiff leg a fraction, her ankle vehemently protested, drawing a whimper from her dry throat.

A large, warm hand came to rest on her bare shoulder. "Rest. You were in a car accident and have a concussion and a badly sprained ankle. Your collarbone may be fractured too." The deep voice was quiet and gentle—probably the attending physician. "Can you tell me your name?"

It took a moment to process his words. Then she opened her mouth and had to concentrate through the haze to speak. "Emma."

"Emma, is there anyone I should call?"

Her mouth felt full of cotton, and she tried to run her tongue over parched lips.

A strong arm slipped under her shoulders and very slowly eased her upright a bit. A cold glass pressed to her lips.

"Water."

She took a sip. The glass left her mouth. With a slight frown, she forced her eyes open to see who spoke. Looking up, everything was a blur. The room was dark. Shadows danced on the ceiling in an orange haze, as if on fire. The physician loomed as a dark silhouettte. Then everything dimmed and she felt her body relax as unconsciousness reclaimed her. But she wasn't afraid this time. It felt warm and safe here.

A clock struck in the distance. She blinked and slowly opened her eyes. The blurriness morphed into clear shapes. Sunlight poured into the room. She lay in a large bed covered in red satin sheets and an impossibly fluffy down comforter. The opposite wall held a magnificent mahogany fireplace. Beautiful relics that easily dated back a century adorned the mantle. A fire roared behind the grate, flooding the room with its warmth. The walls were decorated with dark wood paneling that matched the intricately carved wood nightstand to her left. On the far wall, massive windows caressed the belly of the majestic ceiling. The wall to her right cradled two doors.

A short woman puttered around the room. Her obviously dyed brown hair was in a topknot, and she wore an apron over her blue jeans and blouse. She bustled over to the mantle and brushed at one of the knicknacks with a rag. When she turned, her face lit up in a motherly way. "Oh! You're awake!" She flitted over, waving the dusty rag as she spoke with such animation. "How are you feeling? You took a nasty hit with a tree, dont'cha know. Are you hungry? I can whip up something. You'll love my tapioca."

She blinked at the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties. "Where am I?"

"Oh, don'tcha know? You're in D, I mean, Mr. Port's home." She set down the rag and scurried into the bathroom, not missing a beat in conversation as she washed her hands. "He said to try waking you every hour after he left, but it woulda been easier to wake the dead, ya know. I told him and told him. He's been on the phone for the last hour trying to figure out how to airlift you to a hospital." She came puttering back out and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. "He said you might have brain swelling. Here, you take this glass of water, and I'm going to let him know he can call off the Calvary." She set the glass down on the nightstand and then left.

She rubbed her head. That conversation was far too hard to keep up with in a healthy state, much less with a concussion. She eased up onto her right elbow, favoring the sore left collarbone, and looked around. Where was she?

The woman came bustling back in like the conversation hadn't ceased. "I don't think I said, I'm Trudy Van Hoodie, the housekeeper. Now, don't go makin' fun of my name. I'm from Minnesota, and it was popular to have your name rhyme, don'tcha know. My parents thought they were doin' me a favor, but I could wring their necks now, bless their souls." Trudy slipped another pillow under to prop her up in bed. "It's nearly noon, but I told Mr. Port my tapioca is good any time of day. It'll sit real nice even if you have a queasy stomach."

She cut in before Trudy bustled off again. Or didn't pause again in her monologue. "I don't know who Mr. Port is or where I am."

Trudy blinked and then smiled, ready to launch off again. "You are in the Rockies. No one lives up here besides Mr. Port, bless his soul. You'll meet him in time. Oh! Goodness me, I almost forgot." She pulled a pill bottle out of her pocket. "He said to ask if you have allergies. Don'tcha know, he's worried you'll be achin', so he sent me up with this."

Taking the offered bottle, she read the label. "Do I ask how Mr. Port has a manufacturer bottle of codeine?" She looked at Trudy with disapproval.

Trudy smiled. "Mr. Port does nothing dishonorable or illegal, or I'd turn in my resignation and go work on the sheep farm back in Minnesota, don'tcha know. We often get snowed in here in the mountains, so he keeps a small medical supply on hand. He said to give you one every six hours if you need it. Actually, he said to do it even if you argue because you'll regret it later. The meds he gave earlier will probably wear off soon, and ya don't want to be whimpering like a sheep dog in July." She took the bottle back and opened it.

"A what?" What on earth did a sheep dog have to do with anything?

Trudy pressed the pill into her palm and held out the glass of water. "Drink up. You'll be feelin' better in a bit, dont'cha know. I'll go make my tapioca." She pocketed the pill bottle and disappeared again.

She was exhausted by the time she ate the surprisingly tasty tapioca and Trudy helped her clean up as best as possible in bed. Her entire body felt like it'd been run over. Trudy towel dried her hair being her left shoulder hurt to lift her arm. The woman didn't pause in her chatter singing praises about Mr. Port, yet being frustratingly vague.

"How old is Mr. Port?" Clearly Trudy had a crush on him. The man may as well be a saint with how highly Trudy spoke of him.

With a giggle, Trudy simply shook her head.

She napped, with Trudy waking her every hour per Mr. Port's instructions due to the concussion. In between, she dreamed of this kind old Mr. Port, who seemed to live comfortably, if this room indicated his financial status.


	2. Chapter 2

Someone wiggled her good leg. "You need to wake up for a moment," a deep baritone coaxed.

Her eyes fluttered open to see the room dark, except for the flickering firelight. A black silhouette sat in a chair near the bed so his back was to the fire.

"Alright. I just needed to wake you because of the concussion. Go back to sleep," he said.

His voice was familiar—the one from last night. It sounded so soothing and warm, like a fuzzy mink blanket wrapping around her. She shivered, but not from the cold. He must have noticed because he stepped forward and pulled the covers up higher to her chin. Those hands weren't that of an older man, but of one in his prime—his hands were large and strong with veins chiseled to perfection that wove down to long, elegant fingers. Her eyes traveled up the sleeve of his white dress shirt, which did little to hide his corded arms. Very broad shoulders led up to...blackness and her own reflection where eyes should be. She startled.

He backed up to his chair near the foot of the bed and sat. "It's only sunglasses."

She frowned. He wouldn't be able to see in a room this dark.

"How are you feeling?" His silhouette appeared to sit back in the chair and rest his elbows on the chair arms.

"The codeine helps. Are you Mr. Port?" She pushed herself up a bit to recline against the pillows.

"Yes. Jason Port. And you're Emma...?"

She wanted to squirm, somehow feeling his eyes intently focused on her. "Hoplin." Her eyes narrowed. She had a bone to pick with him. "Trudy was a bit elusive when I asked how I ended up in this bed unclothed."

"I undressed you."

He said it so matter of fact and didn't seem embarrassed about taking such liberties. She swallowed hard.

"I didn't do anything improper. Besides stripping you."

Her face burned in embarrassment. "You're goading me."

"You flush quite nicely when goaded," he replied simply.

The flush grew, but it didn't stem from embarrassment this time. "You're a bit presumptuous to take such liberties."

"Ms. Van Hoodie was indisposed, Ms. Hopkin, and you needed to be checked immediately for injuries."

There was nothing to be done about it now even if he had peeked at her. "Trudy was also elusive about how I arrived here."

"Ms. Van Hoodie can be trying." He sounded slightly exasperated.

She frowned, not meaning anything against the woman. "Oh, no. She's very friendly and kind; she spoke very highly of you when she did reference you. Although I can't imagine why," she mumbled the last bit to herself.

"I happened to be coming home with my driver and spotted a glimpse of a glowing red taillight. You're quite lucky that a random tree was growing there. It kept your car from going off the cliff. The roads were impassible, so we dug you out ourselves and had to bring you here. As soon as the storm clears, you'll be flown to a hospital."

She flushed under his intense tone. "I don't think a hospital is necessary to trouble you with—"

"You'll be flown to a hospital for a scan to make sure you don't have any brain damage. Even the Navy Seals won't come out in this storm right now." His tone left no room for argument.

Had he actually called the Navy Seals? No, that wasn't possible. He seemed a bit used to getting his way and like he didn't appreciate the protesting, though. Well, she didn't need manhandling. Raising her chin, she said, "I'd like to call my family. They're expecting me tomorrow. Trudy said there is no cell phone reception. I'd like to use your landline." She had the feeling he cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Landlines do not reach this high in the mountains. The cell tower is down with this storm. As soon as it's up, you may call whoever you wish."

Her eyes narrowed. "Trudy said you were on the phone this morning calling for a flight to the hospital."

"The tower has since gone down. We've received three feet of snow thus far, and the storm shows no sign of finishing soon." He sounded irritated. Then he stood and spun around to walk to the far side of the room, melting into the shadows. A chair creaked. "I can appreciate your apprehension being trapped in a stranger's house. As soon as Ms. Van Hoodie has a decent night's sleep, I'll have her take my place in waking you each hour." He sounded patient again.

She didn't feel frightened around him, simply...like he could see right through her. It was unnerving. "Thank you, Mr. Port. For the rescue," she said sincerely.

He remained silent for a moment. His voice softened to a warm baritone. "You're welcome, Ms. Hoplin. I'll be here should you require anything."

A delicious shiver ran down her spine; his voice was like an intimate caress. Instinct whispered that he'd keep safe watch through the night. She slid down in bed a bit and winced when her ankle caught in the sheet.

He came back into the firelight, seeming ready to assist but hesitant to come close again.

"I'm fine," she gasped and bit her lip through the pain. The throbbing eased off, and he returned to the darkness. But she wanted him close again. She wanted to see him, this man who had saved her from freezing to death. "Your face is dark like you're wearing something."

"A ski mask." He continued before she could ask, "It's better this way."

"I don't understand. What's better?" Her brow furrowed.

"Go to sleep."

She laid down and stared at the firelight leaping and flickering on the white ceiling. How could she sleep when he sat watching? Her mind replayed their conversation. "Mr. Port, did you say you have a driver?" No normal man lived in what she'd likely discover to be a mansion, as soon as she could get up and explore. And no one had a driver, except a very wealthy or very important man. Her eyes slid to his corner, and she felt his gaze caressing. "Who are you, Mr. Port?"

"Go to sleep, Emma," he said huskily from the arms of the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

She must have slept deeply because the sun streamed into the bedroom when she opened her eyes again. Trudy had prepared bacon, pancakes and, of course, tapioca for breakfast. She scraped the bowl of tapioca clean.

Trudy sat in a chair beside the bed hand sewing something. "You cleaned up that tapioca like a cat with a lick of milk, don'tcha know. I told Mr. Port you'd like it. You must be from around Minnesota." She nodded to herself. "These Colorado people don't like their tapioca. It sticks to the ribs right tight in the winter. Keeps a body hearty."

She laughed. "I take it Mr. Port isn't so fond of it?"

Trudy snorted and gave her a look before resuming her sewing. "He says it's like sour milk. Sour milk indeed! I make him eat a cup of it a day; he has yet to fall ill. It's those probiotisos in there that do good."

"Probiotics, you mean?"

"That's what I said." She set the garment in her lap and leaned forward as if to tell a secret. "He fusses, like a baby on Groundhog Day, so I slip it into his pancake batter." Trudy nodded, seeming proud of herself and sat back.

Smothering a laugh, she had learned not to question Trudy's odd metaphors. "Quite clever of you. Have you been in Mr. Port's employment for long?" That didn't sound too obvious, yet it'd tell her more about the mysterious man.

Pursing her lips, Trudy appeared to think for a minute. "I'd say three years."

"Do you live here in the house?" She popped the last bit of pancakes and bacon in her mouth.

Trudy kept her eyes on the item she sewed. "I do. Never found myself a husband, so it suits me well to dote on Mr. Port. He's a good man and a generous employer, like a turkey on Thanksgiving. I have my own room and sitting room. He doesn't require me on weekends or holidays, so I either go visit my sister in Minnesota or go down to a small town at the bottom of this mountain."

"That must be a lot of driving to go to Minnesota in a weekend," she frowned. "Does he not give you more time off than that?"

Trudy smiled. "For tom cat's sakes, I take a plane. Mr. Port gives me ten plane tickets at Christmas to use when I want, don'tcha know. My sister's husband had a heart attack a couple months ago. Mr. Port had a large business deal going on and lots of work, but he kicked me out the door to go help my sister take care of the kids." She swallowed hard and dabbed at her eyes. "He even gave me a large sum of money to take to her for the medical bills."

Her eyebrows rose. "He must think very highly of you to be so generous."

"Pish posh. It's his way, don'tcha know." Before she could ask what Trudy meant, the woman continued. "I shouldn't be gossiping about him so. Where are you from, Ms. Hoplin?"

"Emma. I'm from Chicago, but I moved to Colorado on the other side of the Rockies a couple years ago. I took a job as a financial adviser after grad school, but I hated it."

"Is that your degree?" Trudy's eyes remained on her sewing, but she seemed very curious.

"No. I actually have a master's in medical writing, but it's harder to get started in the field than I thought."

Trudy smiled, as if very pleased with her answer.

"I've been unemployed for two weeks." She sighed. "I was on my way to Chicago for a family Christmas this weekend. Not anymore now with my car totaled. What is it you're sewing?" The item looked small and black.

"Nothin'." Trudy tucked it into her sewing basket on the floor and then stood. "I'll take the tray. Then what say you about a bath?"

She sighed wistfully. "That would be marvelous."

"I told Mr. Port that a bath is as good as any medicine for a woman. He said you may if you don't put weight on your foot. I'll be back in a hop-skippity minute." Trudy had barely been gone a minute when she reappeared with a cell phone. "Mr. Port said before he went to bed this morning to have you try calling your family. I imagine they're climbing the walls like a cat's pajamas with worry." Trudy handed over the phone.

"Oh. Thank you. Yes, they're probably wondering why I haven't checked in." She touched the screen of the latest model of a smartphone and dialed. It didn't connect. She frowned and leaned forward a bit to try to see out the window. "Is it still snowing?"

"Like a babe's pa-tooty."

That must be a 'yes.' She set the phone down on the bed with a sigh. "Well, perhaps it'll quit soon."

Dear Trudy made a great effort, but the degree of soreness required strength beyond Trudy's. They made it as far as a sit on the edge of the bed. "Let me fetch Mr. Port. He's probably waking up by now. Not one for sleeping."

She flushed. "No, don't trouble him. I'm sure I just need to sit up and stretch a bit."

"Hot water is what will do a world of good. He said to fetch him if we needed." She bustled around the room drawing the curtains closed.

"Trudy, please," she pleaded. "He was up all night waking me up. Let him sleep; I'll keep."

"He'd have my head knowing I let you sit here aching when he could help us get you to the tub." Then she swept out of the room.

Her face burned with embarrassment. She hadn't showered in over a day, the flannel nightgown was Trudy's and far too big and short, and her hair probably looked like a rat's nest. Plus, she probably had a massive bruise smack in the middle of her forehead. She sensed that Mr. Port was a man with more power than she yet knew, and these had not been good first impressions. Adding to the pile of bad impressions wasn't at the top of her list. Thank heavens the room was dim, at least.

A heavy tread hit the hardwood floor. He appeared in the doorway. Her heart flip-flopped and skipped a beat.

He wore black shoes. Black slacks clung to his long legs and trim hips. Again he wore a white dress shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing arms much more muscled than she had realized last night. The shirt stretched taught over broad shoulders. The top couple buttons were undone, as if he hadn't quite finished dressing when he'd been interrupted. She flushed when he came closer, revealing a sprinkling of chest hair peeking out. He wore a black ski mask again, only this time instead of sunglasses, the right eye hole was sewn shut. The right side of the mouth opening had been sewn shut too. His left eye stood out, a vibrant blue. She swallowed hard and tilted her head up to meet his eye at his substantial height.

"I'm honestly fine," she said, her voice softer than intended. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

He stood there, his eye traveling down her and back up.

She wrapped an arm around herself, feeling naked under his gaze.

"You're sore."

She blinked.

"Your breathing is shallow, and you're slouched a bit as if it pains your back to straighten." He bent and scooped her up without any effort.

Her breath caught in her throat. His body heat penetrated straight through their clothes and burned her skin. Every muscle of his chest that touched her was perfectly hard and outlined. Her mouth went dry. She tried to lift her right arm to wrap around his neck to help take her weight.

"Be still, and don't aggravate your collarbone. I won't drop you." His voice was patient and a hint deeper than a moment ago.

His shoulder was right beside her cheek, begging her head to rest on it. She felt so safe and calm in his arms. He carried her across the room with ease.

Trudy ran ahead to the washroom and darkened the room.

She'd forgotten about Trudy the moment he'd stepped into the room. Glancing up at him, she found him looking down at her. His eye seemed to pierce right into her heart. She flushed and looked away.

The washroom housed a large marble soaking tub to the right. He didn't set her to her feet but walked over to the tub. He slowly eased her down into it. While carefully withdrawing his arm from behind her, the large collar of the nightgown slipped off her left shoulder. His gaze landed on it, and his hand lightly brushed over bare skin.

Surely he could hear the rapid beating of her heart.

His fingers grazed over her collarbone, moving toward her neck. Then he slowly began undoing her top button.

She met his eye, almost wanting more. She bit her bottom lip.

"Your shoulder is badly bruised," he said, his voice husky. Then he undid the button and bared her other shoulder. His eye dropped to her neck, and his hand slid over her right collarbone. "It's not swollen. Perhaps simply bruised, not fractured." Both of his hands glided from each shoulder to meet in the middle at the hollow spot of her throat. "Your heart is beating fast." His voice fell to nearly a whisper, and a warm finger stroked the pulse at her throat.

"I'd like to take my bath now," she said softly.

The corner of his eye crinkled and perfect, pearly white teeth showed, as if smiling. "Of course. Summon me when you're decent again, and I'll get you out of the tub." He let his hand sweep away from her throat as he stood, making her ache with desire.

Her eyes followed him out, and she released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Trudy stepped in and chattered while getting everything ready for the bath. Staring blindly at the empty doorway, she cupped her cheeks to cool the flush. She didn't hear a word Trudy said.


	4. Chapter 4

She washed in private after Trudy lit a couple candles "for relaxing." With a sigh of relief, she sank down to her neck in the steaming water and let it relax her aching body. It was somewhat of a large bathroom. The candles reflected warm golden light off the carmel brown marble walls. The counter appeared to be cherry wood with a high-gloss finish and ornate scrolling carved on the edge and the cabinets beneath. Just above it hung a large square mirror framed in beautiful antique gold finished wood.

There was a knock on the door, and Trudy popped her head in. "Wouldcha like some music? I have my music do-hicky." She held up her smartphone. "Mr. Porter taught me how to put on music. You hit this button here, and then you swipe your finger like this to search the songs." She reached around the door with the cell phone and demonstrated. "It's kinda complicated until you get used to it. I kept swiping right past the song I wanted the first day. I told Mr. Port to take it back, I didn't need no high fallutin' phone, don'tcha know. He told me to be patient, and I love it right up there with Jesus now. I have mostly country 'cause that's what we listen to in Minnesota. None of that Jesus-hatin' rock stuff the kids listen to nowadays, dont'cha know."

She stifled a laugh. "No, I'm alright. Thank you, Trudy."

"Okay. I'll just be out here doin' my sewing then. You just yell if you need me. I'll hear you like a tornado siren." Trudy closed the door.

Unable to hold back a laugh, she shook her head. Trudy certainly was colorful, and she could see why Mr. Port kept the woman around.

When the water began to cool, she drained the tub and waited for the water to go down so she could dry off in the tub.

Someone knocked on the door again. Trudy peek in. "I heard the drain. The towel's right...oh, ya got it. I'll go fetchya a fresh nightgown." Trudy disappeared and entered a moment later. "Do you need more medicine? Mr. Port said you can have a half tablet, if needed." Trudy laid out a fresh flannel nightgown on the counter and turned. With a gasp, her hand flew to her mouth. "You poor thing, you're black and blue!"

Looking down at herself, she took in the bruising on her torso and hips from the seat belt, as well as her black, swollen ankle. "I think it looks worse than it is."

Trudy helped wrap a towel around her in the tub and then stepped toward the door.

"No! Trudy, please," she begged.

Trudy spun around with wide eyes.

"Help me up onto the edge of the tub so I can get dressed. Don't bring him in when I'm naked." She clutched the towel that was tucked together at her chest.

With an understanding smile, Trudy stepped closer. "He's a good man. I'm not strong enough to help you up in a wet tub."

Utterly mortified, she tried getting up. Her back tensed before she'd even gotten up a couple inches, and she slipped back into the tub. Trudy hurried out, and she closed her eyes in humiliation, clutching her towel against her chest in a death grip.

His heavy footstep sounded on the tile floor, and she tensed. Her body clenched so tight it hurt. She sensed him standing beside the tub, and she hunched her shoulders and curled her knees to her chest a little without exposing herself. Her eyes focused on her lap as her long, damp auburn hair dripped down her shoulders and back.

He took a couple steps backwards and spoke softly. "Ms. Van Hoodie, fetch my bathrobe. It will give her more modesty."

"I'll be back in a lick-splickity minute."

Silence lasted for only a second.

"Ms. Van Hoodie said your bruising is extensive. May I check your back when she returns? It seems to be bothering you more than it should."

She looked up at him and was surprised when he squatted to be eye level with her.

Calm patience exuded from him, and his blue eye studied her intently. "You don't need to be frightened," he said gently. "Who hurt you?"

Swallowing hard, she bit her lip for a moment. How did he know? "An ex-boyfriend," she whispered, unable to look away. "He came over to my apartment to talk after we broke up." Her eyes dropped to his feet, not wanting to relive the memory but wanting him to know for some reason. "A neighbor called the police because of the noise. They arrived before he did anything." Her eyes traveled back up to his.

He held her gaze. "Except teach you to be frightened of what a man could do," he said quietly. "No harm will come to you here."

She searched his eye, absorbing his words. "Why do you wear the mask?"

Trudy bustled in with the large terrycloth bathrobe. "Forgot I left it in the dryer. It's as warm as an Alabama sun, don'tcha know," she chattered, oblivious to the interruption.

Mr. Port didn't move. Or break his gaze.

She flushed and looked away.

Trudy stilled, with the robe in her arms. She looked from one to the other. "Is everything alright?"

"May I?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed, and then she realized what he was waiting for. With a nod, she loosened her grip on the towel and untucked it enough to let it droop a little down her back as she leaned forward.

He got up and knelt beside the tub.

Warm hands swept her wet hair over her right shoulder, and then the pads of his fingers skimmed along her spine. Shivers skittered through her.

"Are you cold, Emma?" he whispered in a husky voice for her ears alone.

She bit her lip and gave a small shake of her head, but refused to look in his direction. His tone said he knew exactly why she'd shivered. His fingers gently kneaded the muscles across her shoulders. At first the muscles cramped a bit, and she bit her lip.

"You have whip lash locking up your back," he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod and then heard Trudy slip out of the room.

His other hand joined in as he slowly massaged her shoulders and the base of her neck. The tips of his fingers pressed into the muscles with just enough pressure. The relief from the aching was so overwhelming that her eyes rolled back and her chin dropped to her chest. Her lips parted slightly, and her breathing slowed and deepened. Those magnificent hands worked their way down to the middle of her back, his force gently rocking and lulling her into a relaxed state of semiconsciousness. She melted under his hands.

He took his time working back up to her shoulders, and then his thumbs rubbed small circles on each side of her spine up her neck to the base of her skull. His fingers rubbed the sides of her neck below her ears, where she hadn't even realized it hurt.

She sighed, utterly captivated under his spell.

"Better?" he whispered. His hands glided up into her scalp and massaged.

Her head leaned back into his hands on its own accord, and her breathing quickened slightly to soft panting. Her scalp tingled in both an erotic and relaxing way. One of his hands glided around to cup her jaw and slowly turned her head to face him. Her sleepy eyes fluttered open, her head resting on his hand that cradled like a pillow.

A blue eye searched her face. "That's the most pain-free you've looked yet," he said softly, as if pleased. Then he wrapped the robe around her and scooped her up.

Sleep threatened to claim her, and her body relaxed so completely she didn't want to fight it. She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes, utterly content to sleep in his arms. His long, sure strides gently rocked her closer to slumber.

"I talked to the flight tower, and there's going to be a break in the storm in a few minutes. We're going to slip through and get you to the hospital to be examined."

His voice vibrated low in his warm chest, a comforting sensation against her cheek. His words slowly sank in, and she blinked, trying to wake up. Disappointment flitted through her heart. He eased her down to sit on the edge of the bed, tucking the robe around her for modesty.

Trudy returned with a small suitcase. "I was ready to go just in case. All I have that won't fall off her is another flannel nightgown."

He straightened and set his hands on his trim hips, turning his head to Trudy. "She can wear my parka too. Help her dress. We have five minutes." Then he left.

"How are we going to drive through the snow?"

Trudy laughed and helped get her left arm through the armhole. "We'll take the helicopter from the roof. By flight, it's just three minutes to the hospital, don'tcha know."

She slipped on heavy wool socks, Trudy helping with her swollen ankle. "Whose helicopter?"

"Here, I'll brush your hair." Trudy seemed to deliberately change the topic.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Trudy called and quickened her brushing.

He strode in wearing a heavy sweater, blue jeans, and snowboots, and carried a black and red parka and snowpants. Trudy took them, and he left again. Once she was dressed in what must be his wintergear because it was far too large, Trudy left with the suitcase. He entered and pulled up her parka hood before scooping her up. He carried her down a long corridor as majestically decorated with dark wood as her room, and up a staircase. They passed through a door and stood in a three-by-four-foot, cold room. Another door opened, and a blast of cold air assaulted her face.

She huddled into his arms until he stepped out. Snowflakes gently fluttered from the ovecast sky, a far cry from the blizzard yesterday. With disappointment, she noticed the snowfall was too hard for a view of what would probably be breathtaking scenery from a mountaintop.

Snow crunched under his boots as he walked across the roof. A helicopter perched in the center of the pad, and a man in heavy snowgear sprayed de-icing liquid on the chopper. Trudy sat inside already.

The man stopped spraying and opened the passenger door so she could be carefully deposited her inside. The man closed the door, and Mr. Port trotted around the chopper to climb into the pilot seat.

"You're flying?" Her heart jumped into her throat. Outflying a blizzard seemed dangerous enough without doing it with one eye covered too.

He leaned over and whipped the belt across her hips and then down over each shoulder. "It's legal," he answered, apparently knowing her thoughts. Then he buckled himself, and the man outside gave a signal. He started up the chopper and put on a headset.

Trudy tapped her shoulder. She looked, and Trudy pointed to her own headset on and then to the front. Her eyes followed, and she put on a headset.

"Come in TWSI68. This is Carolina Five requesting takeoff..."

She watched him flip switches and communicate to the tower for flight clearance. The blades picked up speed and whirled in a loud, droning hum. Then they began to hover. She looked out her window to see the rooftop fade away. A white veil limited the view of everything, so she glanced over her shoulder at Trudy. The poor woman had her eyes squeezed shut and hands folded, her lips muttering as if in prayer.

"She hates heights," he said over the headset. "You?"

Turning her attention to him, she shook her head.

"Good." Then they picked up speed, and he kept in constant contact with the tower to be their eyes. His movements never hesitated to hit buttons; his voice never waivered over the radio. Listening intently, she even heard him once gently correct the tower on some kind of trajectory. She watched him, completely mesmerized.

Right on schedule, three minutes later they landed on a large red cross on a rooftop. Two doctors ran out onto the pad toward the chopper.

She looked at him in question when he leaned over from the pilot seat and unbuckled her but didn't shut down the engine. "You're going back?" Going to the emergency department instantly seemed frightening. She'd just assumed he'd be there in the background watching over everything; watching over her.

"The pad has to be clear for their EMS helicopter. Ms. Van Hoodie will go with you. I left her with instructions." His gaze was calm and steady. And it gave her courage.

The physician opened the door and scooped her out. Trudy scrambled out behind. As the doctors raced across the pad with her and Trudy followed behind rambling off details of the accident from a piece of paper, she looked over the doctor's shoulder.

The chopper slowly rose and then leaned to the left in a tight turn to retrace its path. She watched until it disappeared into a curtain of snowflakes...and silently wished he'd turn around.


	5. Chapter 5

She hated hospitals. The doctors whirled her from one test to another while Trudy had to remain in the waiting room. Nerves kept her from thinking too much about Mr. Port; other than desperately wishing he'd show up. His calm, in-control demeanor would make everything less frightening. It was hours later when the results came back and she was admitted for overnight observation.

Trudy came shooting into the room in her coat and dragging the wheeled suitcase, which bounced and stumbled behind her to keep up. "Flip me over and call me done, they're telling me nothing. I was about ready for them to say you'd met Jesus, don'tcha know." She rushed over to the bed and engulfed her in a hug.

She held Trudy tight and swallowed back tears of relief to have someone here. "The doctor just left. He said I have to stay the night because there is slight brain swelling in one spot-"

"Wait." Trudy pulled back, dug a cellphone out of her pocket and started dialing. "Would you tell Mr. Port and I'll listen? He's had me calling hourly. Sometimes I get a signal for a couple minutes."

She nodded.

"Mr. Port, they finished the tests. Here she is." Trudy handed her the phone.

"Hi." She suddenly felt embarrassed and glanced at Trudy, who smiled encouragingly.

"Hello. Are you alright?" He sounded a hint anxious. It seemed odd to think he could worry about anything; he seemed so cool and composed, like even the end of the world wouldn't faze him.

"Yeah, it's just some whiplash and a bruised shoulder. There might be a small ankle fracture."

"And the concussion?"

She nibbled her lip and glanced at Trudy, who looked concerned. "Did you by chance grab my purse out of the car?"

"Getting you out unbalanced your car enough that it went over the cliff. You nearly went with it."

She rubbed her eyes. There went any chance of selling it for parts to buy another car. Lovely.

"The roads are still too hazardous for anyone to find and steal your purse," he continued, sounding impatient. "What did they say about your head?"

Nibbling her lip, she hesitated.

"Emma, I'll ask Trudy if you won't tell me," he said gently.

She swallowed hard. "I have to stay for overnight observation. There's a little brain swelling in one spot. He said it's a contusion...?"

"A bruise on the brain. I had one myself once. How bad is it? What are they doing for treatment?"

Wrapping an arm around herself, frightened tears surfaced. She felt so overwhelmed and scared. Mom and Dad would worry, thereby make her worry more. But instinct said he would quietly and proactively take control of the situation and make her fears melt away. "They're watching it to see if it worsens. He said surgery is the worst case." Her voice cracked. She wanted him here. Then she handed the phone to Trudy, not hearing what he replied.

Trudy set a hand over hers and spoke into the phone. "I think she's done talking...Yes, I think that would help..." She lowered the phone for a moment. "He asked if he may speak to the doctor."

She nodded and brushed at her eyes.

"Yes, sir...Alright, I'll tell her..." She looked at the phone in confusion. "Mr. Port?" Then she hung up and looked at her. "Lost the signal. He said you'll have to sign your consent. I'll go get the papers from a nurse. He also said to see if you can reach your parents." Trudy pulled out some kind of credit card from her purse and dialed on the patient landline phone beside the bed before handing over the phone. "Here. Just dial their number."

Her mouth dropped open for a moment. "I can't. It's long distance. Paying by the minute is too expensive."

Trudy took her hand and pressed the phone into it, wrapping her fingers around the phone. A soft smile touched her lips. "He insisted. Don'tcha get me in trouble for not followin' orders." Then she left to find a nurse.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she dialed.

"Hello?"

"Mama?" The tears returned hearing Mom's soft voice.

"Emma? Baby, where are you? We've been calling and calling you. Peter, it's Emma," she said to Emma's father. "I'm putting you on speaker."

"Emma, what happened? Are you alright?" her dad asked, his voice colored with worry. "I heard a snowstorm suddenly hit out there."

She covered her mouth and took a shakey breath. Crying would make them more worried. "I'm okay. I had a car accident-"

"What?! Oh my god, are you hurt?" her mother asked.

"I'm okay. Just a little bruised. I got knocked out, so I'm just in the hospital overnight for observation. A passerby saw my car and got me out before the car went over the cliff. I can't...I don't have a car to make it home for Christmas."

"We're coming, baby. Peter, go sell the bonds at the bank and get plane tickets."

"No, Mom, I'm okay. Besides, the storm is going pretty hard yet."

"Yeah, Becky, all the airports are shut down out there," her dad said.

"I'm okay. The housekeeper of the man who found me is staying here. She's very sweet."

"What man?" her father pounced, sounding protective.

"A stranger, but he's been very kind. He and his housekeeper have been taking care of me at his home, and he flew me in a helicopter to the hospital when there was a break in the storm."

"What?! You stay there. We'll figure out a way there. Don't you go back to a stranger's house. He could be a psycho killer," her mom panicked.

"Becky, calm down. What's his name?"

"Jason Port."

"What's his address and phone number?" he asked.

"I don't know. He doesn't have a landline, and the cell reception is bad with the storm. His house is in the the mountains."

Trudy walked back in with a paper.

She covered the mouthpiece. "Trudy, my parents are a little freaked out and asking for Mr. Port's address and number."

"Of course." Trudy rattled off the information.

"Trudy, his housekeeper, is back. Here's his info, Dad." She repeated it.

"You call three times a day, alright?" her mother demanded.

Her lip quivered. "OK, Mama."

"Baby, are you sure you're okay? You only call me 'Mama' when you're upset."

"No, I'm good."

"What hospital are you at?" her dad asked.

When she finally hung up, she burst into tears.

Trudy sat on the edge of the bed and held her tight. "It'll be alright. Shhhh." Her hand stroked up and down the back of the hospital gown.

She found some measure of comfort from Trudy and soon fell asleep from exhaustion for a couple hours.

Trudy, not surprisingly, had a hodge podge of items in her purse, including cards. They played several games and had dinner. Trudy worked hard to distract her, but the nurses coming in every hour made it harder and harder to put on a brave face. She watched a terrible soap opera on TV with Trudy but fell asleep before the show finished. It was then that Mr. Port came to her in her dreams.

Someone was watching her sleep that night. She opened her eyes. The only light that leaked in came from the hall through the door cracked open. A black figure sat in a chair beside the bed, and Trudy was nowhere in sight. She gasped, shooting up in bed in the dark room. Her heart shot in her throat. Fear wrapped it's boney fingers around her neck, making it hard to breathe.

"It's only me, Emma," a deep timber said quietly.

She sighed in profound relief...and then her heart took off for a different reason.

It was Mr. Port.


End file.
